


of dust and ashes

by sisinala



Category: Goyo: Ang Batang Heneral (2018), Heneral Luna (2015)
Genre: F/M, Gun Usage, Implied Violence, M/M, Mafia AU, Multi, Multiple Deaths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 18:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16143404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sisinala/pseuds/sisinala
Summary: Joven comes home to a too empty house and too full graves. Vicente is there, too.





	of dust and ashes

_They say we are asleep until we fall in love. We are children of dust and ashes. And if we fall in love we wake, and we are a god and angels weep. But if I die here tonight, I’ll die in my sleep._

                                                                                                                                                                    - Natasha, Pierre & the Great Comet of 1812

 

 

                Of all things Joven thinks he remembers he was wrong about the heat, too. Yes, it could get hot in New York, but it wasn’t like that _all the time_. So he wipes the sweat off his brow and retrieves his bag. It was really hot, it makes him see the incoming car in double. Uncle Rusca swore up and down he would fetch him from the airport.

                “You don’t know, Joven. Everybody else— We need you safe”, he said. After all the other contents of that one fateful phonecall, he guessed it couldn’t hurt. The shady, lucrative business his adopted family participated in—used to participate in—he corrects, was every shade of danger he didn’t like. And that’s why at sixteen, he stomped his foot in all of the haughtiness only the heir of one of the most powerful families in the country could muster and ran away to pursue his passion in the States. All the good it’d done to him, pulling away from the _familia_ to simply be back here. All these years and all that pain just to go home to more.

                Would anything be different if he had stayed?

                The black Continental came into the curve, gleaming in the sunlight and baking quite a little bit too. The tint was too heavy but he could already imagine his uncle squinting at the line of people waiting for their ride. _Too exposed,_ he would think. To which Joven  would roll his eyes. The Magdalos have done too much damage that they wouldn’t try anything so soon. _Or they would._

 _Joven, this is what you need to remember. Everyone is out to get you._ He laughed then.

 _Even you, Papa?_ His moustache stirred in a small smile, but his eyes were hard.

_Even our dog. Never trust anyone with all your secrets. That’s why we have brains._

                His uncle does not roll down the windows. That’s an invitation. He walks with purpose, with the dignity of a prodigal son, but his shoulders were too taught—too tired of carrying the news he just got a few days ago. How does one deal with almost all their known family being dead?

                He gets in the car, using the door to shield his body—just like he was taught. His Papa Tonio was nothing if not paranoid.

_Was. Your Papa is dead. They killed him._

                “Hello, Joven. Long time no see” Uncle Rusca barely glances at him, then turns away to look at the scorching road. For the always kept Rusca, this passed as shabby. He had stubble, his sleeves weren’t perfectly folded to his elbows, but he still scanned both sides of the road—windows, doors, all the places a snipe could hide. He sighed. Rusca was not wearing his wedding ring. He guessed uncle Greg was there too. He was Magdalo before he was a husband. Careful what you say, Joven.

                Fuck.

                “You noticed? I guess you are of your Papa. Yes, Joven I took off my ring. Gregorio was there. He told me. The burn notice came from high up. Very high up. He would be dead too if he didn’t do it. Don’t worry, he wouldn’t have to worry about that. _Familia, familia, familia._  He made his choice and I made mine. Are you scared now, Joven?”

                There was a gun, on the front seat. There were no surprises there. A vehicle of theirs would be better equipped than the president’s whole retinue. A gun on the front seat is a shout, a scream of desperation. Nobody else to protect but him.

                “Are you alright, Uncle Rusca”

                “As fine as I could be in this situation, ijo. You said you wanted to go to them?”

                “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the burial”

                “It’s not your fault. We rushed because there was nobody else to mourn. Only us now, señorito”

                They didn’t even wait until he was ready to beg his Papa for forgiveness. He guessed he wasn’t there for Uncle Rusca’s wedding, or Paco’s or even the christening of his younger brother—so he didn’t deserve any of that. Too much, too much for such a short time. The news of his Papa dying was devastating, he was already on his way home then the next phone call arrived. _The president wants us all dead._

                He gasped aloud in pain. His cheeks were wet.

_Papa. Kuya Paco. Kuya Manuel. Kuya Jose. Gregorio, too, maybe. Mama Sabel. Baby Juan. Fucking hell. Baby Juan._

                He stopped himself from gagging aloud, but the build-up of the past few days made its way through the acid in his head.

                “It’s okay, Joven. We’ll be there soon”

                Was there any consolation that he wishes he was dead too?

...

                They placed a small granite stool in front of the graves. Nobody wanted mauseleums.

                _I want to die facing the sky, the clouds. The comfort of the ocean above our beautiful country._ His Papa said, a smile always under that beautifully kept moustache. He was content in the silence of death, always knowing that the business they were in entailed such dangers. But Mama Sabel hit him in the shoulder and he smiled, then. _Biro lang, mahal._

                No.

                No.

                He knew that back. That stoop to the way he sits. His hands, his beautiful hands, visible from the side. His eyes, on the granite slabs. Not you.

                God, please, not you.

                He looks up.

                Vicente.

                _Where you there?_

                “Joven, do you want to—“ The unheard movement of Rusca’s hand to his pistol at his back. He raises his hand in assurance.

                “No, I want to talk to him. I’ll go home by myself. Thank you Uncle”

                “It’s not sa—“

                “Thank you, uncle” And there it was. Joven Hernando-Luna, _señorito_. _Go home, uncle. I’ll deal with this. He broke my heart once. You don’t need to see this happen again._

                “Call me when you arrive”

                The house would be so empty.

                Uncle Rusca backs off, heads to the car. He doesn’t hear it pull away.

                “What are you doing here?” Vicente’s eyes were shining. His hands are clenching on each other.

                “They’re my family. What are _you_ doing here” He stands up. Reaches for words that he wouldn’t be able to find.

                 “I—“

                “You?” He raises an eyebrow. He sits down on the stool.

_Hello, Papa._

                “I’m so—“

                “Shut up and sit down. You’re giving me a headache”

_You probably missed me. I’m sorry, Papa, Mama._

                Vicente sits down. He doesn’t need to ask if he was there. If he had a hand in all of this. His haunted eyes tell him all that he needs to know.

                He sits too close. Vicente starts sobbing quietly. Joven doesn’t know why, but it happens too fast. Reflex now, maybe.

                He takes Vicente’s hand.

                “Jo—“

                “Shut the fuck up”

**Author's Note:**

> not edited because i cant see through my tears


End file.
